


Shears

by IncandescentAntelope



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Blindfolds, Bondage, Canon Compliant, Comfort/Angst, Hair-pulling, Haircuts, Hand Jobs, Inspired by Art, Light Dom/sub, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Smut, Wet Dream, sad/sexy mind theater, sexy danger, the haircut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 13:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20046994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncandescentAntelope/pseuds/IncandescentAntelope
Summary: Viktor finds himself in an odd situation and makes the best of it. Until he can’t.





	Shears

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this art](https://twitter.com/Savi_yoi/status/1154512180051468288?s=20) by the insanely talented Savi! please please please go give the artist love on Twitter!

Viktor didn’t know where he was.

It wouldn’t be the first time, of course, he often felt this way when the post-skate adrenaline often clouded his perception. But there was something unnerving about this time, the lack of light around him, firstly, being a contributor. It was almost impossible to see, save for a tiny twinkling of light ahead. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, dry as a bone when he swallowed. The presence of a warm hand in the small of his back being another factor.

_“Where am I?”_ he mumbled, his voice sounded small and weak, his lungs aching like he had just finished a skate. His legs burned in a similar way, as a warm, firm hand pressed against his lower back, pushing him forward.

“You’re with me, that’s all you need to know, Vitya.” a voice replied in English, quiet and assured, but Viktor wasn’t settled at the sound of it. He reached back through half-remembered meetings and chats with strangers to place that voice, but his memory was dark, fuzzy. The world itself around him felt odd, illusory, the floor beneath his feet shifted with his steps in that odd way that it did immediately after a skate, like he was still skating on solid ground. Everything felt off somehow. Distorted, like looking through a funhouse mirror.

“Keep walking, please.” the voice directed, and Viktor obeyed.

He let the _‘who are you?’_ question die on his tongue, and it disappeared into the back of his mind. They walked for another long, interrupted while, taking sudden turns right and left and shewing any hope of Viktor’s (limited) directional awareness in an inky maze of hallways. It was so dark here, even when Viktor blinked, he couldn’t tell a difference in the lighting. How were they walking so easily if everything was so devoid of light?

It took another few paces to recognize the cool kiss of satin over his cheekbones, resting over his nose. A blindfold.

_Kinky._ Viktor laughed softly and continued walking with that ever-present pressure against his back. This was hardly the weirdest thing he had done in the service of his partners, given Ivan’s affinity for the way Viktor’s chest in women’s lingerie. (Viktor’s memory was a funny thing, plucking the strangest moments out of time as memories worth keeping, while other, more pressing events, such as the leadup to this very moment escaped even the tiniest recollection. _C’est la vie_, as Chris would say.)

“Something funny, Vitya?” the voice mumbled again, and Viktor shook his head, shivering at the sudden brush of hair over his shoulders and upper back. _When had his shirt disappeared?_ His hair was tugged up into a long ponytail.

“No,” he replied, his movement finally stopping when the firm, unfamiliar hand disappeared from his back and his escort shuffled around him. There was a jingling of keys and the creak of door hinges that could use with a bit of grease, before that voice said something again.

“Turn to your left, Vitya.” the voice said, and Viktor obeyed. “Good. Walk five steps forward and stop.” Perhaps this was all part of a game, and far be it for Viktor to complain, inexplicably being blindfolded and bare-chested in front of a stranger felt _fun. Thrilling,_ almost.

_Reckless. Stupid._ A voice spat at him from the dark of his conscience, but he pushed it back with an indignant shove.

Viktor obeyed, taking five steps forward. The flooring changed under his feet, from old, creaking floor to plush carpet, like in his bedroom.

The voice mumbled soft praise in a language Viktor didn't understand when he came to a stop, the air significantly stiller here. Everything was quiet and dulled here, dark and warm. He shivered as two warm hands smoothed over his chest and pushed his shoulders back slightly, his chest pressing forward as he settled into his pin-perfect posture, carefully crafted over years of relentless training and hours at the barre. A hand under his chin, lifting it slightly, then tilting it to the side. Gentle fingertips slid along his jaw and Viktor could barely stifle the soft sigh that tumbled out.

"Beautiful." The voice hummed, stroking his cheek.

Viktor took in a shaky breath at the praise; it was no surprise that the man had a praise kink a mile wide, and just the barest compliment had him striving for more. He ached for it. He always did.

"Thank you." he replied, leaning into the palm caressing his skin, pressing a kiss to the skin he could reach. "Now do I get to know who you are?" Viktor asked with a small laugh, still rendered sightless by the blindfold.

"No, not yet." the voice replied, and the hand withdrew, tracing featherlight trails along his chest and stomach. “That’s not something you need to know right now, is it, beautiful?” the voice purred, outlining the defined lines of his muscled abdomen. Who he was… that was hardly tertiary at this point. His hands were touching him kindly and his gut told him he was safe. Well, safely in danger. Sexy danger.

Viktor shook his head softly from side to side, feeling his arousal pitch higher and higher at this game of anonymity, a soft voice murmuring praise and _touching_ him so reverently.

“That’s right, lovely.” Viktor could feel the warmth of skin before he felt the touch, the kiss of soft fabric against his bare chest. “You’re such an obedient boy for me, Vitya.” the voice whispered against his cheek, “So pretty and obedient.” Hands wrapped around his narrow hips and thumbs rubbed at the jut of his hipbones, dancing over the taut skin there.

Viktor whined and nodded again, biting down on his lower lip. “Th-thank you,” he stumbled over his own words, moving to reach out and feel the body in front of him, just to know he wasn’t imagining it, that the voice was indeed, attached to a body that he could physically touch. But his arms wouldn’t move. Bound, somehow. He didn’t remember his arms being restrained before. “My arms?” Viktor questioned, tugging at the unknown binds, gasping when they tightened around him with the movement.

“You don’t need them, darling.” the voice insisted, “Are you uncomfortable? Too tight?”

Viktor shook his head again, reveling in the way his ponytail swished over his back. “Not too tight. Just unexpected.” he replied, humming softly as the hands on his hips dipped lower, finding the waistband of his jeans and dipping inside. “A n-nice surprise.” Viktor stuttered.

“Mmm, good. You’ve always liked surprises, haven’t you?” the voice teased, and Viktor nodded. He had made his penchant for surprising his fans abundantly clear, especially in the past few years. “Mind if I take care of these, Vitya? They’re in the way.” Fingers tugged at the waist of his jeans.

“Go ahead,” Viktor nodded, humming softly when the button of his jeans was flicked open and the denim peeled off his thighs. His underwear followed immediately with them, pooling around his ankles and Viktor moaned as his cock bobbed in the air between them.

“Look at you~” the voice laughed gently, not in a rude or cruel way. “So excited…” Viktor nodded and clenched the muscles in his core, making his length bounce again. “Ohoho, it’s dancing for me, is it? _How cute_.”

Viktor laughed and nodded. “It wants to be touched…” he said, putting on his best pouting face, hoping it came across well enough with the blindfold in the way.

“Does it?” the voice asked, the tone of it dark and sensuous like chocolate or velvet. “It’s dripping like it wants to be touched…”

Viktor nodded. “_Da_, please~” he moaned. He wasn’t above begging, especially now and in this position, his arms bound and his vision diminished, with an interested party in the room with him. It was quiet for a moment, just the sounds of fabric shuffling and footsteps around him.

“I’ll make sure that you get what you need, Vitya. But first,” the voice whispered from behind him, setting one hand on the back of his neck, wrapping the second around his ponytail. “Kneel.”

Viktor’s breath caught in his throat and he obeyed, letting the hand around his neck push him to his knees. His heart rabbitted in his chest, knowing that he must look like the perfect image of submission-- his head bowed, his knees spread wide, his cock hard and dripping but untouched between his legs. Bound and blind, completely helpless and under the control of his partner, his invisible, unknown partner.

"Good boy, Vitya." The voice praised, making him moan again. "Such a pretty little puppy." The hand gripping at the back of his neck relented and Viktor mourned its loss for a moment before he felt a sharp, painful tug on his scalp.

“Ahh~” Viktor gasped, earning a soft, pleased hum from his partner above. “D-don’t be too mean to it…” he protested with a choked-off laugh. “My hair is worth more than my skates.”

“Oh, but sweetheart, it’s just hair…” the voice replied, toying gently with his silver tresses. Viktor snorted.

“_Just hair._ Sure.” Viktor laughed humorlessly, the sound dying in his throat as quickly as it came. “This,” he said, tossing his long, silky ponytail gently, “will never be _just hair_.”

Viktor swallowed back everything that hung off the end of his tongue at that thought. Viktor was his hair, the object of his teenage defiance now defined him. His rejection of the norm now held him captive in a prison he himself had created. Viktor Nikiforov, world champion, Viktor Nikiforov, symbol of utter perfection. The tail of silver in that stranger’s hand was everything his image had been sculpted to be; the perfection he had always striven for exemplified in a perfect sheet of silver rippling behind him on the ice.

Yakov had threatened to cut it so many times before that first interview. It was barely shoulder-length at that point, his silvery-white hair had been styled in a very 90’s bob by the nice lady at the makeup table before the filming began. But even at thirteen, Viktor had begun turning heads. And that attention felt _good_. The interviewer had asked him about hair products and styling routines, questions no thirteen-year-old had answers to. But within a week, the list of treatments and products exceeded the digits on both of his hands, and a pair of shears never touched a single strand of it again, save for dead-end trims. Viktor had nearly forgotten the sound of hair passing between twin scissor blades.

Until tonight.

The hand that had disappeared had returned, with a pair of scissors, now dragging through his hair.

"N…" Viktor began, his protest aborted in his throat. "I…"

Strands of shorn hair danced down over his back and landed around his bent legs, falling limp like autumn leaves on the pavement. The shears snipped again with that grating slide of metal against metal and so came the tears, unbidden and unwelcome as they soaked the blindfold.

"You aren't perfect." The voice said clearly, authoritatively, closing the scissors around his ponytail.

"I… I know." Viktor shuddered breathlessly, the tears shaking his frame.

"No, you don't." the voice insisted. "You aren't perfect, Viktor." Another metallic snip.

"I know-"

“No, you don’t.” the voice repeated, interrupting Viktor’s reply. “You aren’t perfect, Viktor.” the shears slipped shut one last time around his ponytail, and the last of that silver weight fell to the floor around him. Long, choppy strands of it still laid limp around his face, tickling his now wet cheeks.

“Yes, I do, I’m…”

_"No, you don't."_ the voice grew louder. "You don't know. You were never perfect, you are not now, and you never will be." The sudden change in volume ripping a mangled sob from Viktor's chest. "All your life you've been looking for perfection and you know you'll never find it. You've been making your life miserable by striving for what you will _never_ attain."

Viktor’s breath caught in his throat, something between a sigh and a sob shuddered to life between his lips, and silence fell between them. The air felt thick and hot around him, oppressive like summer’s heat.

The scissors fell to the ground with a thud, muffled by the thick carpeting.

"You don't think I know that?" Viktor replied in a sob, gasping for breath between his words. "I… I know!" Viktor's voice broke around the admission and he fell forward in his posture, feeling even more locks of hair fall from what was left of his ponytail. "I know I'm not perfect, but I want to be!" His voice broke around the admission, splintering and cracking like weight set on glass. "God, I've never wanted to be anything but perfect…" Viktor whispered, admitting his sins like a parishioner of a god who never listened.

Viktor's ragged breaths slowed but his tears didn't, and they ran down his cheeks and along his jawline when the blindfold finally fell from his eyes. Two hands ran the length from his shoulders to his stomach, plucking away the shorn locks and tossing them aside.

"You aren't." The voice said quietly as whispy strands of hair fluttered over his thighs and down his back. The shrapnel of this revelation felt more like feathers than heat-warped metal and gunpowder-laced remnants.

Two words lifted an unknowable weight from his shoulders.

"You. Aren't. Perfect." The voice took shape, finally, and when Viktor's eyes opened, the tears blinked away, he saw it. Yuuri's ring, glittering in the low light of their bedroom. His knees were resting on their pillow top mattress, Yuuri's warmth dipping the bed behind him. Yuuri's hands wrapping around his chest, Yuuri's lips pressed against his throat, his breath tickling the heated skin.

Viktor’s eyes flew open and met the reflection of himself, his hair messily cut, the scissors lying on the bed by his side. Yuuri was behind him, his features soft and inviting as always. His hair was pushed back in that carefully made style, combed back over his head in a gleaming wave of ebony, save for the few disobedient tufts at the front. His blue glasses shone with the reflection of the city lights outside their window.

Yuuri was here. Yuuri had done this. Viktor sobbed again, the words tumbling from his lips unbidden.

"Thank you." he gasped brokenly, the tears now falling heavy and unceasing like summer rain. "Thank you, Yuuri, I…"

"Shh," Yuuri cooed, cutting off the blubbering. "Just breathe, Viten'ka." Yuuri whispered against his throat, using that intimate diminutive that only Yuuri had been given permission to use. "I've got you. You're here with me.”

A wet sob tore itself from Viktor’s throat and he took in every gasp of air that he could, despite the ache in his lungs. Yuuri’s left hand dove between his legs and wrapped itself around his cock, stroking it gently back to full hardness as the other hand cradled Viktor’s chin the way he loved. It was tender, gentle.

“Y-Yuuri…” Viktor mumbled hoarsely, pushing his hips forward into Yuuri’s fist. “I… I need you, please…”

Yuuri ducked down and let his breath ghost over the pulse point at Viktor’s throat. "You have me, love. I'm here." He whispered, mumbling softly in Japanese that Viktor was beyond the hope of understanding.

"Yuuri…" Viktor begged, unsure of what he wanted at the moment, only barely able to summon his fiance’s name as Yuuri pulled gently at his hardening cock, in just the way he loved; he used slow, steady strokes and flicked his wrist just right over the head of it.

“Can I hear you say it, Viten’ka?” Yuuri murmured against his throat, his lips moved wetly against Viktor’s skin in a way that made him shudder. He knew what Yuuri was asking for without inquiry.

“I’m not perfect.” he answered, moaning as Yuuri’s pace quickened.

“Good. Again.”

“I’m not p-perfect,” Viktor cried, bucking into Yuuri’s fist. “I’m not perfect.” Yuuri nodded and leaned down again to kiss at his throat again, murmuring nearly silent Japanese in his ear, his chest vibrating against his back as he stroked him. “I’m not per-perfect.”

Yuuri’s pace doubled and the slick glide of his hand over Viktor’s cock made him sob his fiancé's name again. “I’m not perfect. I’m n-not perfect, _shit_, I’m not p-perfect, _Yuuuuuriii~_”

Viktor wasn’t sure what woke him first. His own strangled moan or the sudden, uncomfortable warmth under the duvet. Yuuri slept at his side, snoring gently like he always did, Makkachin had lifted her head the moment Viktor woke. Everything was in its place, and nothing felt odd, like it had in the dream. The illusory shifting of that world disappeared, replaced with the solid, tactile space of his and Yuuri’s apartment.

Viktor sat up slowly, trying to reorient, and the briefest glance at the mirror across the room had his hand immediately seeking out the messily shorn locks at the back of his head, but only found the neatly trimmed undercut he had been sporting for years. Recently shaved, even. He blinked and the image disappeared; his fringe was tangled with sleep, the messy, mangled cut given by heavy silver shears had remained there, in that dream, and in a memory he wished he could have forgotten years ago.

Tear-misted, unfocused eyes forced themselves shut as shaking hands sloppily, angrily slashed at the ponytail held tightly in his fist.

_“It was time for a change,”_ he had lied to the press, to Yakov, to everyone who dared question why his silver locks were short-cropped the next morning.

_“You have to do the opposite of what people expect. How else will you surprise them?”_ he had told Yuuri and Yurio, before the ice show in Hasetsu.

Viktor slid out of bed silently, and not wanting to risk waking Yuuri, drew a bath in the guest bathroom. The water just this side of scalding, Viktor stepped in and let the sting of it dull the memory, if only for the night. Just long enough for him to fall asleep again. But that voice echoed in his mind again.

_“It was just the hair,”_ one of his teammates had whispered. _“He’d never win without it.”_

* * *

Yuuri waited until Viktor returned to bed. He didn’t ask what had happened, he didn’t need to. The heat of his skin was enough to know. He simply opened his arms and let Viktor fall into him, silent, shuddering cries escaping into his skin. He didn’t bother to check the clock on the wall.

"I've got you. You're here with me.” Yuuri breathed, barely louder than a whisper. "You have me, Viten’ka. I'm here."

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed it and if you haven't please go check out the art that inspired this fic! leave kudos and a comment if you liked! 
> 
> ❤️ IA ❤️  
[Tumblr](https://incandescentantelope.tumblr.com) | [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/IAtheAuthor)


End file.
